Think
by Forias
Summary: Sherlock always complains that people never saw the obvious. What if seeing the obvious wasn't always an advantage? What if now his life actually depended on someone else doing just that - seeing the obvious, putting everything together - to find him. What if that someone was John? Lots of Sherlock whump/torture/rape/comfort/etc. coming up - rated M now (and for future reasons...).
1. Chapter One: The Game Begins

**Well hello there.  
First of all, I have no idea where this story came from, it just popped into my head and was there, then I started writing it down and *poof*.  
I hope you all enjoy my sadistic mind.**

**Ah right, I don't own Sherlock... obvious, isn't it? xD If I did, there would be even more Sherlock whump in the show *cough*  
Enough of the talking, here you go.**

* * *

Think.

John did not feel anything. His mind yelled at him to be angry or sad or furious, to feel something, anything, but he didn't. This one time he just thought, his mind working through every single aspect that could possibly help him – he didn't know why he didn't feel anything and he didn't waste his precious time wondering about it. His eyes were locked on the computer screen, observing what little he could make of Moriarty's letter, but he thought more than that. He thought about everything that Sherlock had said to him before Moriarty's men had abducted him, because he was sure that the detective must have figured something out to cause this mess and John knew that his friend would have foreseen the trouble and therefore given the blogger hints of what was going on. All John had to do was what Sherlock told him to do whenever he got the chance: Think.

Question one: why didn't Sherlock just _tell_ him? - Well, obvious, as the detective would say. If John had known, he would have been taken, too.

Question two: Why hadn't he been taken? - Moriarty must have figured out that Sherlock had been giving out hints, there was no doubting that… but perhaps if these hints were so subtle, so meaningless to John that he, in Moriarty's eyes, couldn't possibly have figured out the truth behind them… perhaps that would be enough to protect him.

Question three: Would he be able to figure it out in time?

He forced his thoughts back to the last day he had seen his friend and tried to recall everything he had said to him, but the picture that suddenly appeared on the computer screen ripped him from his thoughts. It was Sherlock.

He was dangling from the ceiling, only held by chains around his wrists, his upper body was naked and covered in marks, blood and dirt and his head hung loosely in front of his chest, his brown curls only making him look more pale than he already was. He looked exhausted, almost starved to death, and he shivered violenly.

Suddenly, he looked up and right into the camera, his eyes for once showing what he felt. The doctor saw the hopelessness in them, the fear, the pain and – what shocked him most – something very close to resignation.

It took the doctor a great deal of effort to stay where he was instead of running out into the night, searching every house, every room in London until he found his flatmate.

Right then, a figure stepped into view. "Good morning, Sherlock." Moriarty's voice had adapted its usual, half-singing tone and it caused a very fast reaction from the detective.

"D-don't… please… no more." The detective flinched, trying to get away from Moriarty. "John…", he croaked, a broken, desperate sound and John felt his heart shatter. Sherlock did not plead, he just _didn't._

Meanwhile, Moriarty had taken another step towards the detective and grabbed him by his hips. He turned his face to the camera, giving his audience a big smile.

"And good evening ladies and gentlemen.", he chimed. "Tonight, I will have the great honour of answering some very urgent questions of yours. In fact, I will already answer one right away: Yes, as you can see, Sherlock is still alive – although you probably don't even care that he's gone, do you? What other explanation is there that you have not yet stormed into this room to rescue him?" The detective whimpered softly, closing his eyes, but he was not fast enough – John had already seen the agony in them - Sherlock actually _believed_ Moriarty.

"Secondly…", the other continued, his fingers digging into the consulting detective's skin, deep enough to leave marks. "I do consider myself a very generous man and all the Christmas songs are getting to me, so just in (the rather unlikely) case that you actually ARE looking for him I am willing to play a little game of hide and seek. Who knows, you might just win." Moriarty opened his arms as if to welcome someone and his smile grew even wider.  
"Isn't that a _nice_ Christmas present?"

He reached for something outside the camera's view and suddenly, a crack sounded, soon followed by a bloodcurdling, hoarse scream and yet another gash on Sherlock's chest, before the computer screen went dark again and John was left with his thoughts.

Why would Moriarty allow him the chance to get Sherlock back after he had apparently kidnapped him because he had figured something out? Once again, a surprisingly clear thought crossed his mind and he could literally _hear _Sherlock sigh: "_Obvious, John, it's so OBVIOUS. It's just the same reason why he chose to become a consulting criminal - he is bored._"

* * *

**Alright, I got it started, so let's see where this ends.  
Prepare to deal with some really bad scenes later on.  
*hands out some cookies***

Thank you for reading this, everyone!


	2. Chapter Two: Dreams and Wishes

**Whoo, I couldn't sleep, so here you go with chapter two, everyone.**

**Before we begin, though – thank you for the reviews :3**

**And yes, my brain is weird, please excuse that. (Then again, my brain is what has caused this fic, so it might not be that bad after all…) Anyway, enjoy chapter two.**

* * *

Sherlock struggled to stay conscious, to keep his mind from slipping away, because that was all he had left – his mind. And even there did he only own parts of it, after Moriarty had so carefully started to tear down his mind palace' walls one by one. He was losing it, ever so slowly falling into the depths of madness and there was nothing he could do about it. And yet he clung to his sanity with all he had left. He had lost sense of time long ago, all he knew for sure was that it was still December, otherwise he surely would have heard the firecrackers on New Year's Eve. He briefly wondered if Christmas had already passed. A picture of John sitting next to a richly ornamented Christmas tree in 221B showed up in his mind, unbidden, tearing at his very soul and Sherlock Holmes realized that he actually missed the mindless chatting of Christmas and the warmth of a family to celebrate with.  
John… Why wasn't he here yet, dragging Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson behind him like his personal army and finally ending this nightmare? Surely he had figured out Sherlock's hints by now, they should have been obvious even to John if the doctor would actually start thinking – was he really glad that Sherlock was gone, just as Moriarty had hinted, did he really not care?

The detective gave a small, broken sob, the feeling of loneliness overwhelming him. He was glad that Moriarty had left a while ago, leaving him chained to the floor; Sherlock didn't want to give him the satisfaction of hearing him cry.

Curling up against the cold, he let his tears run freely now, too exhausted to hold them back. He forced himself to just stop thinking about John, concentrating on the dull headache and the darkness that lingered at the edges of his mind, trying to count along with his heartbeat to distract himself from the memories of his imprisonment and the vague fear of what was still to come. Still, he couldn't quite block out the constant pain, even though he could not locate it anymore – his entire body seemed to be a single, burning mess that seemed too hot against the cold concrete floor and so he gave in to the darkness.

"John - help me…", he muttered as he let himself slip into the waiting unconsciousness.

He awoke to the loud bang of a door being kicked open and the detective closed his eyes against the bright light that he was not used to anymore. After his eyes had adjusted, he dared to open them a little, seeing a small, blonde figure storming in, ready to fight whatever was in this room. Finding that there was nothing threatening in here, the figure rushed to Sherlock and shrugged off its coat, wrapping him in it. He closed his eyes again, leaning against the man beside him whom he quickly identified as John. Relief washed through Sherlock's senses and he was surprised at how secure he felt in this very moment.

The doctor opened the chains restraining the detective within the blink of an eye and gently picked him up, hurrying outside, only to be met with a group of Moriarty's men. Sherlock pressed his head against his flatmate's shoulder, wanting to hold onto this feeling of safety as long as he could, but then his eyes snapped open. The scent… it was not John's. He had almost gotten too used to it to even notice, but that was exactly why he suddenly felt alarmed. The only scent he could possibly be used to right now was Moriarty's – and that was when he started to struggle again, trying to wrench free.

His weak actions were rewarded with a high-pitched chuckle and he was thrown to the ground carelessly, the men being all over him in less than a second and the last thing he noticed before sheer panic took over was the feeling of his hands being tied behind his back, agitating his wounds and causing fresh blood to flow and the sound of clothes rustling and ripping.

* * *

**Admit it, I had you there xD**

**But no, I'm not that cliché.  
I figured if Moriarty could do it with some children, why not with a distressed Sherlock?  
… that last part kind of wrote itself, feel free to sue my keyboard, but I think that's definitely the final reason to set the rating to M.  
Besides, M definitely suits Moriarty better D**

**Ah guys? Please let me know how graphic you want the next chapter to be^^ Do you want me to skip the progress and move back to John or do you want to stay with Sherlock for a little while longer?  
**


	3. Chapter Three: Shattering Hopes

**Sooo – guess who's back?**  
**And guys, thank you for all the lovely reviews I found when I checked back here, you've really earned yourselves some cookies :3**

**Robottko**** – oh well, I can't let you die, can I? Here you go!**

**InisdeYourDreams24**** – I think I answered everything in the PM I sent ;) But yes, he is a poor baby.**

** 2die**** – I actually did have quite a nice time writing this, thank you :D**

**FriedCheese**** – "wow" as in "wow, this story is breathtakingly stupid" or "wow, this is actually kinda good"? XD (just kidding – thank you!) You will find that I was indeed as graphic as I wanted... which reminds me, on with the story!**

**greenboredom ****– no, there will never be enough Sherlock whump to even begin to satisfy me deepest sadistic needs…**

* * *

Sherlock hated himself for screaming in sheer terror, but he was too exhausted to keep quiet by now as he was shoved around. He was roughly forced into a kneeling position and showered in threats – unnecessary threats, because he had already been here for too long to not know what would happen if he resisted. Not that he had not tried it, he had... countless times. And he had felt that all the threats were only too real and the men were only too happy to punish him. Someone blindfolded him – with his own scarf, he noticed, but Sherlock could not quite bring himself to care anymore – and fingernails scratched across his back, deliberately crossing some of the wounds there. He listened for what he knew would come and before long, he heard the sound of a belt being undone – a soft, metallic sound, followed by the creaking sound of leather. The detective stiffened, clenching his jaw and preparing himself, just before the belt whirred through the air, meeting Sherlock's back right across his shoulder blades. Hot pain spread across his entire back, leaving his skin oddly warm and he could not bite back a whimpering sound as he doubled over, his body trying to cope with what was being done to it. Another whirring sound, another loud crack, another pained noise that was almost a scream by now – and Sherlock knew that they were not done yet, before long, he would be writhing on the floor, screaming as loudly as his lungs would allow. The next biting pain in his back brought him back to reality, just in time to feel the belt hitting his shoulders over and over and over again, until it all slurred together in a neverending spiral of agony.

Finally, _finally,_the lashing stopped and he was given time to catch his breath, every sharp, pained intake of air resebling a soft whine.

He knew what would come next.

Footsteps positioning one of the men right in front of him.

A dirty, sadistic laugh.

"Now, boy, I don't like the sounds you make. Let's put that mouth to better use."

A voice hoarse from arousal.

The sound of a zipper being undone – and finally, a rough, musky scent as something wet smeared across his lips.

John would surely laugh at me for being so weak…He must have been through far worse in Afghanistan.

Sherlock clenched his jaw again in an instant, keeping his lips tightly shut.

One of the man backhanded him across the cheek, but he barely noticed – he had gotten too used to far worse things. A fist in his hair pulling roughly at his – now rather long – locks made him hiss, but he still refused to cooperate.

"Why don't you make this a good deal easier for yourself and just play along, boy?", another voice asked, just as aroused as the first one, but far more threatening, accompanied by the cold bite of a knife against Sherlock's chest. He knew they wouldn't kill him – if Moriarty wanted him dead, he would already be dead by now – but he did not have any need for his chest to be cut open, either, so he slowly, reluctantly, relaxed the muscles in his face, allowing his attacker to shove his cock past the detective's lips and as far down his throat as he could.

Sherlock managed not to gag. Instead, he stayed perfectly still, allowing the other man to thrust in and out of his mouth at his own pace, waiting for it to be over and at the same time dreading that moment. A sharp, brutal thrust caused him to grunt in pain, the vibrations eliciting a moan from the man in front of him and making him repeat the move several times.

After some time, the pace sped up, the man's movements became erratic and wild and Sherlock tensed, still waiting.

It didn't take long and suddenly, his mouth filled with a hot, sticky substance. He hollowed his cheeks, hoping against better knowledge that he would just be able to spit it out, but the knife that suddenly travelled from his chest to his stomach told him otherwise and, after taking a quick breath and mentally preparing himself as best as he could, he swallowed. The come left a bitter taste in his mouth and he coughed, barely able to control the urge to retch.

"Good boy." The first voice said, petting him in a mock of affection.

A sudden rush of ais against his cheek told Sherlock that the man in front of him had just waved at the others and suddenly, he was pushed forward. Unable to catch himself with his tands tied behind his back he felt his right shoulder collide with the concrete floor and he could tell that it was at least bruised.

In a matter of seconds, he found himself stripped of the remnants of his clothes and someone was kneeling behind him and spreading his legs, his breath hot against Sherlock's back.

The detective whimpered, but knew better than to ask them to stop; they wouldn't. He tried to focus on pleasant images in his head instead of what was happening to him, but he failed, as he had failed the times before – the scarf across his eyes increased his other sensed and he could not stop from noticing everything that was going on.

The lingering taste of come still present in his mouth, the constant burning of the marks on his back, the numb pain in his shoulder where he had his the ground, the smell of arousal in the air…

… the finger prodding at his entrance, roughly demanding entrance.

The second finger joining the first one, twisting and scissoring inside of him, and suddenly, the emptiness which was soon followed by another man's cock lining up with his hole, drawing out the moment.

And then everything was washed away by the wave of agony that followed the powerful thrust of the man behind Sherlock.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, to keep from screaming everything that threatened to make his way past his throat.

_John, help me, where are you?Why aren't you here yet?Make it stop, John, make it STOP! I can't do this anymore, it hurts, John, make it stop, makeitstopmakeitstopMAKEITST OP!_

A third man took the first man's place in front of Sherlock and this time, he could not quite keep from gagging anymore, but the other did not seem to mind.

They were taking turns now, some fucking the detective from behind, some preferring his mouth and whoever was currently not busy actually thrusting into the man on the ground would just stand around him, jacking off and wiping themselves clean on him.

Somewhere along the way, Sherlock had finally found his mental way out by losing consciousness, but he was roughly yanked back into reality with a few hard slaps across his cheeks the moment someone noticed.

After they were done, they simply left the broken detective on the ground in a mess of come, blood sweat and dirt until another group of men picked him up to tend to his wounds, wash him roughly and drag him back to his cell.

Finally, Sherlock was left alone in the darkness where he curled up against the cold as best as he could and thought of better times at 221b. It almost seemed like a different life by now, a life full of warmth and happiness and without constant pain.

_He's not going to come…_

Somewhere in the pitch black darkness of the small cell that was now his home, Sherlock gave in to the tears that burned in his eyes, silently crying until the exhaustion took over and he fell asleep, dreaming of John finally coming for him.

* * *

**Oookay, before you shoot me – I did not have anything to do with this chapter, it's all my keyboard's fault. (Unless you liked it, ich which case I actually AM responsible for this xD)**

**Now – I personally have never dealt with rape and even though I do know a rape victim I have never actually spoken to him (yes, him) about it (which, I think, is understandable) so if I have messed up anything here, feel free to let me know. Secondly, I have NO idea how Sherlock would react in this situation, so if you find anything that's terribly OOC… just pretend that it wasn't ^^**

**For those of you who wondered: Yes, there will be some flashbacks telling you how Sherlock actually got into this mess and how Moriarty managed to turn him into what he is now, but they won't be in the next few chapters. You WILL get them, though, so don't worry ;)**

**So – I guess that's it, chapter 3 is now officially done (and it's really, really fucked up… xD) - it's actually longer than I imagined it to be, but then again, chapter 1 and 2 were awfully short...**

**Let me know what you think *****offers a round of cookies***


	4. Chapter Four: The Powers That Be

**Sooo – I'm sorry haven't updated this in a while, real life got kind of busy. Anyway, I'm back now.**

**Again, THANK YOU everyone for the absolutely lovely reviews.**

**Chaoimhe**** – well, there you go xD**

**comedienne – right where he needs him. A little late, but he made it.**

**LonelyWhiteWolf99**** – oh dear, I can't have you die now, can I? I hope I saved your life with this^^**

**SweetMango22**** – I did :3**

**FriedCheese**** – Oh well, I hope I didn't disappoint you with this one, dear :3**

**Now, there you go with the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it :3**

* * *

John was surprised that he had not yet paced a hole into the floor of Lestrade's office.

There had to be something he was missing, there just had to. He couldn't be left like this, without any chance to save his friend.

Moriarty chose that exact moment to send another note, the computer screen suddenly flaing to life.

"Hello everyone.", his voice greeted. "I thought you might want another update on your sniffer dog, it's almost Christmas, after all. Smile for the camera, Sherlock!"

It was the same room, only lit by a single lightbuld, but this time, Sherlock was lying on the ground, panting heavily. He was not wearing any clothes anymore and John's inner doctor couldn't help but notice the blood sticking to his friend's thighs.  
He bit his lip, fighting down the waves of nausea that threatened to drown him at the sight.

"Now, doctor, don't you want to help him?"

"Of course I do!", John found himself replying. Sherlock looked up, desperation in his eyes.

"Please…", he croaked hoarsely. "Please Jim, enough of this…"

Moriarty ignored him, his attention resting on John.

"There is something you can do _right now_ to help him.", he informed him, excited. "He needs several things:  
Someone to stick his hand up his arse and pull out whatever is hidden there, something that is causing him immense pain right now, mind you, food and water – he hasn't been fed in days – bandages to keep his wounds from getting infected and a blanket for obvious reasons.", he explained casually, his eyes meaningfully following the small clouds his breath left in the air, emphasizing his last comment.

John tensed, but remained silent.

"Now, Johnny, for a small favour, I will let you choose two of the previously mentioned and make sure he gets them. How about it?"

The ex-soldier didn't have to think about it. Anything, anything at all to ease his friend's suffering.

"What do you want?"

"Take a pen.", Moriarty ordered and John obliged. "Stab your palm with it, I want to see the blood flow, Johnny. Really flow, until it drips to the floor."

John shuddered, but he held out his left hand, his palm open, and raised the pen with his other. If he had to pay this madman in blood to help Sherlock, he certainly would. He was a soldier, after all. Some pain and blood… - and he could direct the pen, could make sure to miss everything he would have to miss if he wanted to use his hand later on.

"Go on.", Moriarty said, grinning, and John set his jaw and brought the pen down until he felt hot pain flare up his arm and he pulled back, clenching his fist.

Blood seeped through his fingers, running down his wrist and dripping to the floor, but John stood firmly, his eyes fixed on the screen, his expression grim.  
Narrowing his eyes, he held out his injured hand in front of him, showing it.  
Moriarty laughed.

"Good, very good, doctor Watson!", he praised. "So – what will it be?" John's mind raced, but eventually, he decided.

"Food and water and his arse."

Moriarty tsked and shook his head.

"I said two, Johnny, not three. But… since you've been _such _a good boy… Very well, those three it is. You might want to thank the _Powers That Be_ for my generousness. Now, I'd better be off – until later, John Watson, and Merry Christmas."  
And with that, the screen went black again.

Almost immediately, John became aware of the fact that there were other people in the room with him, if Lestrade's hand on his shoulder was any indication. It was silent for a while, before the Detective Inspector cleared his throat.

"We were able to trace the call – a bit. It actually came from London. I know it's not much, but it's something to work with… I don't think it's a coincidence that we were finally able to trace his calls, though.", he said in a warning tone. "He is up to something." John shook his head.

"He is bored.", he said quietly. "He's broken his toy and now he's looking for entertainment by having us find him." He was slightly surprised how clearly he could see the reason for Moriarty's behaviour, but then again, it didn't really matter. "In fact..:", John continued, following a sudden thought, "I might just know where to look… I mean, I don't know where to look, but what to look for." Lestrade stared at him quizzically.

"Before he left, Sherlock said that he would go back to the beginning. I always assumed that he meant the beginning of the case, but… oh, it all makes sense now!" He started to pace around the office again. "Moriarty is still in London, Sherlock goes back to the beginning. What if he didn't mean the beginning of the case, but the beginning of everything?" He looked around, only to receive blank glares.

"Carl Powers.", he explained. " '_The Powers That Be'_, remember? Or rather, where he lived… Is there a way to find out where he lived and see if the house is abandoned?" Lestrade nodded briefly, sending someone to check it. John continued to pace until the man came back, handing him an adress and confirming his suspicion: The house was, indeed, empty. Before he even registered what he was doing, the doctor had stormed out of the builing, called a cab and was on his way.

* * *

John stormed into the building and immediately knew he was right. There were footprints in the thick layer of dust on the floor, but he barely noticed them. Something else confirmed his suspicion – an apple, as red as fresh blood, sat on a small table in the entrance hall. There were three words carved into it, one below the other, and the doctor flinched as he read them.

_Merry Xmas, John._

His blood went cold, pumping fear and rage through him and his grip around his gun tightened as he followed the trail of footsteps to a small door that seemed to lead downstairs.

It was locked, but Sherlock was not the only one with skilled fingers and within a few seconds, the door opened, revealing a set of stairs leading down into the darkness. John took a deep breath and made his way down, carefully listening for any sound that was not his own.

A long corridor finally ended in front of a tightly locked door and this time, it took John quite a while to pick the locks, but he finally succeeded and the door swung open.

"… Hello?", he whispered, anxious. A scared whimper answered him, quickly followed by the sound of chains rustling.

"What do you want?" The voice sounded desperate and broken.

"Sherlock?" If not for the apple, he wouldn't have recognized the detective from his voice alone.

"Drop the act, Moriarty." Sherlock sounded tired

"I'm not…", John began.

"Of course you're not." There was a tone of hopelessness in the other's voice that bothered John.

"Would I stand here and discuss this with you if I were Moriarty?"

"Anything to make me believe you're John – again. Anything to build and break my hope."

John was taken aback. "Sherlock…"  
"Just stop."  
John growled and entered the small room, turning on his flashlight. The moment he laid eyes on Sherlock, he wished he hadn't. His friend was not only chained to the gorund, but also tied with what seemed to be Christmas lights. Blood was smeared all over his exposed torso, paining a Christmas hat and the words "_enjoy your present._"

The doctor felt his stomach flip and could only barely resist the urge to throw up. He shook his head, turned off the light and put it down, along with the gun, before he carefully made his way over to his friend until his fingertips brushed Sherlock's shoulder.

"Stop…", the detective protested weakly, flinching away. John ignored it, knelt down and embraced the other in a hug. Sherlock's muscles stiffened, but the doctor didn't let go until his friend started to relax.

"You… don't smell like him.", he stated, confused. Moriarty had never bothered to change his scent.

"That's because I'm not him.", John whispered, still holding Sherlock. He startled as he suddenly felt the detective's thin – too thin – frame wracked with sobs.

His trained mind registered the angry welts on his flatmate's back and he could barely suppress a growl. He did not want to think about it, but he knew he had to.

"Sherlock?"  
"… Yes?"  
"What did he do to you?"  
"You are a doctor – if you are who you claim to be. You should know."  
"It's too dark."

John frowned as the detective suddenly leaned against him, desperate for warmth – enough to push aside his distrust for a while.

Letting go of Sherlock, John shrugged off his coat, wrapping it around the detective's body and hugging him again. The other tensed, but didn't protest, and soon he was burying his face in John's shoulder. The scent was definitely John's, even though the weeks of torture had almost erased the memory from his mind. He even felt the ex-soldier's battle scar through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"It's really you…", he whispered, still not quite daring to believe it.

"Of course, Sherlock." John carefully tightened his hug, espressing with it what he couldn't say: I missed you. I was worried about you. I'm here now, I'll keep you safe. I won't let him hurt you anymore. Hold on.

And Sherlock pressed himself against John, longing for the warmth, the protection, the care his hug offered, eager to escape this hell for a few moments, eager to conjure up happier memories with the man who sat beside him, softly combing through the detective's long-grown, unruly curls and that small gesture of comfort drove Sherlock over the edge. Fisting his hand into John's shirt, he pressed even closer and let go, sobbing helplessly into his partner's shoulder. He was beyond caring right now, becond embarrassment. John simply continued stroking Sherlock's hair, whispering soothing words and holding him close.

Sherlock said something John didn't understand and it took him a little while to figure out that it had in fact been a question.

"I'm sorry?"

Sherlock lifted his head.

"Why?"

"… why?"

"Why don't I matter to you?"

John found himself at a loss of words. His mind screamed at him to protest, to completely erase the thought from Sherlock's mind, but he was too shocked.

The detective actually believed Moriarty's lie – and the fact that John was currently sitting right next to Sherlock, hugging him, comforting him, did nothing t oprove just how wrong this was. This time, John couldn't suppress the andy growl coming from somewhere deep in his throuat and it was not until Sherlock flinched violently that he realized how much of a mistake this mas. He sighed.

"Sherlock, you…"

"Nevermind, forget about it.", the detective interrupted hastily, too afraid of the answer.

"Listen to me. Please." John waited and Sherlock did not protest, so the doctor carried on.

"Look, I'm here to save you, to bring you home. I'm sorry I didn't come earlier, I…" he stopped.

Yes, what?

I tried? Obviously not hard enough.

I wanted to? Then why didn't you?

I didn't know he'd do this to you. Oh yes, you did.

I couldn't find you? I didn't know where to start? I came as fast as I could?

John began to understand why Sherlock was convinced that John had abandoned him. It was easy to counter everything he could possibly say and considerig Sherlock's view of people and the world… The doctor shuddered.

"I never stoped looking for you the moment I learned that you were missing.", he whispered finally, his voice breaking a little.

_And it has taken me four months to find you…_

Sherlock nodded, but John knew that he didn't believe it. Not yet, anyway, he corrected himself.

Outside, John could hear the blaring of sirens and it finally sunk in.

He found him.

* * *

**Yes, I was in a writing mood. And yes, I am aware that this is full of logical errors xD Feel free to correct me if you find any and I'll do my best to change them. On another note, I am no doctor, so how ever the anatomy of a hand works… I suppose there's space for a pen – somewhere. Whatever. *hands out some cookies***

**On yet another note ****– to those of you who want to see Sherlock suffer more: There will be a lot of flashbacks coming up as to what happened before Moriarty called John and I might just add a few about what happened between the first rape and his rescue, so don't worry there xD**


End file.
